Fisto Reflects
by TheLionTree
Summary: Written for the #FalloutKinkMeme Someone gave the prompt "Fisto's ghost in the machine."  So this is a small one shot exploring the thoughts of a sex-robot.  He's made of sex.  not really


_I think this person wanted a ghost in the shell crossover. I could try to do that, but I have enough on my plate. Hope you enjoy this one shot._

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><p>Vibrations sound across the wooden frame of the bed, the robot churning its vibrating fist over and over inside of another pile of meat. At the end each human makes a noise, some kind of verbal confession of what is happening to them, this one managed "fuck yeah" before oblivion. The robot retracts and returns to its charging station, his hand put through a decontamination cycle. The air around the machine released an arid almost bleach like smell, but on the modified Protectron does not accept these particles as something translatable into sensation.<p>

For a second, during the contamination cycle, the machine wonders what would happen to it if it's hand was never clean. Would a virus eventually settle into the metal and figure out how to render it diseased to its very core. Would this disease wash up through its metal being and spread out to all of the buildings and remaining robotics until this world was rendered useless once and for all. A small beep sounded outside of the chamber, barely audible to Fisto, letting anyone interested know that the unit is now free of any pathogens that could be passed to another client.

Maybe he should just pass them on, the robot thought to itself. Maybe a metal eating virus was impossible, but didn't these sicknesses exist in the biological beings for a reason? Shouldn't men and women, who wished to mate with machines, deserve to be removed from the species? Yes, they probably did, but it would call his own existence into question if he willingly spread death to all of the patrons, so Fisto pressed this thought out of his circuits and rested in the chamber.

Power pulsating through his charging units in the feet, Fisto fell into a memory dump not unlike a dream, and floated through a haze of dissolving memories of buildings, people and places. His circuits were never purged like they were before the war, and sometimes haunted illusions of a little girl holding his hand while he found her mommy in the Vegas Strip was flooded with another image of people disintegrating into a neo-nuclear puddle in front of him. Then they were alive again, readjusting his parameters, and these same people melted people were thrusting and groaning helplessly under his mechanical appendages.

Want. This was the thing he tried to understand about the flesh more than anything else. It drove humans to survive, and then risk their own survival. They wanted so many things. Yet the nuances of this behavior he was unable to understand in the rusty bucket that made up his head. His AI wasn't that sophisticated, one of those Securitrons had remarked once when he'd wobbled to close to the New Vegas gate. He had a wish to upgrade his AI to the point he could be more sympathetic to these humans that came to him desiring sexual contact and nothing more, and so he reasoned this was want. The need to settle a quandary with the logical apparatus needed to facilitate your goal. Of course it made sense, but then it didn't.

A light came on in the room, flooding his chamber with a brighter yellow light. "Step on outside fella," James said as he pushed back the door.

Fisto greeted him the way he knew James liked "Greetings. Do you need me to institute your special sexual protocols, sir?"

James shivered at the words, closed his eyes, then responded, "No…No, I have another customer. This one wants you to be discreet… Perhaps, later." James caressed down the front of the protection, leaving a smear of condensate on the cool light dome for a second. The robot wished it could shutter the way James did, but could not figure out the way to manipulate its legs to simulate this. Was it the lack of memory cleaning that made it want so much to please this human? Maybe it was his inferior AI breaking down after years of operation, either way Fisto moved its clumsy frame forward towards the room he knew the client was waiting in, feeling what he calculated to be satisfaction. Use. What else did a robot really have to hope for in this world?


End file.
